Outrageous superstitions
by Galiko
Summary: Sinbad wants to establish a rather… raunchy new ritual in Sindria.


Ja'far doesn't think much of Sinbad telling him stories about fertility festivals he's observed in other countries, especially amongst royalty. Most of the time, it's all for a reaction that Sinbad tells him these things, anyway—a reaction that Ja'far rarely gives, because there is scarcely a thing more boring or base than sex, especially when coming from Sin's mouth.

"In the fields. Copulating."

"That's a _really_ unattractive word for it, but yes."

Ja'far shrugs. "Good for them. Whenever you find a queen, perhaps you can employ the same, if it suits you."

He thinks little of Sinbad's _pout_, too.

What does make his mind start to spin, however, is the sudden jerk down an empty hallway within the palace, and a hand clamping over his mouth to stifle his startled yelp. Sinbad looks _pleased_ with himself as he drops to his knees and drags Ja'far with him, and Ja'far thinks he might have squeaked once or twice, what with how quickly his back hits the stone wall behind him.

"_Sin_—"

"We're in public, I know." He grins, that spark in his eye something Ja'far_knows_ means nothing good is to come from this. "That's part of the fun. Sindria doesn't have fields, so perhaps blessing the palace floor will be good enough, yeah?"

Ja'far opens his mouth to protest, but Sinbad's lips are there, stifling the noises he wants to make, ridding him of complains and reasonings against all of this as surely as Sin's fingers grab and shove at his keffiyeh, sending it sliding down from his head in a rumpled heap. Just as he starts to get used to the idea of being kissed in an abandoned palace hallway (that is only_temporarily_ abandoned, at that), Sinbad's pace changes again, and Ja'far finds himself spun around, dragged with his back to Sinbad's chest, and he swallows hard, feeling the hard line of the other man's cock pressing against him as those big, strong hands splay over the insides of his thighs, hiking his robes up as they go.

It's obscene, how quickly Sinbad can do this to him. There's no one else—literally, _no one_ that he would allow to touch him so intimately, let alone like this, and it isn't until Ja'far finds himself bend forward, splayed face-first into the hard stone, panting and rubbing his cheek into it in search of somewhere_cool_ to press his flushed face, that he realizes exactly how _far_ that affection goes. He's terrified, of course, that anyone will simply come around the corner and see him bent over like this, on his knees with his ass in the air and Sinbad's hands on him and his fingers _in him_ as he sucks and bites at the back of his throat—

God help him, but his cock is all the harder for it.

When Sinbad's fingers slide away and out of him, he feels _empty_, twitching and shivering and not _wanting_ to ask for something more, but on the verge of it all the same. Those big hands are on his hips though, yanking him up, back into Sinbad's lap instead as the man shifts, and Ja'far scrambles, looking frantically over his shoulder as he finds himself straddling Sinbad's hips. Sinbad just grins back at him, a hand smoothing down Ja'far's back, and he nudges his advisor forward just a bit more, all the better to guide his cock to that tight little hole. "Want to watch it when it goes in," he murmurs, and Ja'far's face flushes even hotter, his body trembling even harder, but there are few protests he can form when he wants, wants, _wants_.

His head tips forward, breath catching on some sort of sobbing, half-moan at that initial _push_. Sinbad is big, big and thick and hard and oh, _god_ it's always such a tight stretch, no matter how riled he is and how eager he is. Sinbad's hands are tense around his waist, sliding down to knead his ass as Ja'far sinks down, thighs twitching, quivering as he slides down half-way before it's too much, and Ja'far thinks he mumbles some broken little plea for _help_ that turns into Sinbad grabbing him, hauling him down until he's hilt-deep and their hips are flushed and they're _both_ groaning and hissing out too-hot breaths.

"You look _far_ too good like this," Sinbad tells him, and Ja'far's breath hiccups when the man's hips snap up, hard and _deep_, so deep that his mouth falls open and all he can do is gasp for a full breath. "Wish you could see the way you're just spread open." Ja'far feels his fingers on his waist, his hips, down the curve of his ass and on his thighs, and all the more lewd still, Sinbad's thumbs brushing the tight, tight ring of muscle wrapped around his cock, making Ja'far squirm all the more, mind too clouded to figure out if it's _closer to _or _away_ from.

Ja'far _tries_ to ride him—tries to lean forward, to brace his hands on Sinbad's thighs, to set his knees into hard stone and wriggle his way up. It's too much, though, and he's too dizzyingly_ full_ to think, and so it's Sinbad's hands on his waist as the man pushes himself up, grabbing him and moving him, his own hips shoving up into him, with Sinbad's breath hot in his ear and his words some obscene mix of groans and grunts and telling him how if he squeezes his hands just right, he can nearly feel himself _inside_ Ja'far like _that_—

He can't think past that—any of it, really, and he's biting into his own knuckles as he comes, toes curled so tightly that cramps twitch up his legs, and Sinbad shudders hard, shoving up a last, rough time before Ja'far feels his world spin again, and he's dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, face down and legs splayed and Sinbad's pulling _out_, messily coming over him and on him, over his ass and down his thighs and that _shouldn't_ be as good as it is.

"This," Sinbad says breathlessly, grinning and so, _so_ pleased with himself, "will be our country's ritual instead."


End file.
